


Breezes and Buceros have one thing in common

by Grand_Funk



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 15:24:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13367559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grand_Funk/pseuds/Grand_Funk
Summary: "Hi, I'm Mona." Says Mona in a voice that Svlad feels is fit for someone who breaks into rooms as a draft, only to spend time in them as a bird.





	Breezes and Buceros have one thing in common

"There shouldn't be a draft here," says a boy who in twenty years time will be known as Dirk.

He says it with all of the panache of a TV detective to a live studio audience, despite the distinct and utter lack of any other people in the room with him. Truly though, there shouldn't be a draft coming from beneath a door that leads out into a strictly regulated hallway within a strictly regulated facility, filled only with the most strictly regulated personnel and air alike. There shouldn't be a modicum of the stuff out of place. There never has been before. Yet there is the current matter at hand: a draft which has now fully passed from beneath the door and is casually and carelessly swirling about the room. Certainly an unusual action for a draft. (Perhaps a Draft, with a capital D, since it seems to have a great deal of free will.)

"Hello Draft, my name is Svlad," Svlad calls from the middle of his bed. "And while I have seen some very, very, strange and unusual things, I've never seen anything quite like you. Until now that is. Are you," and here he takes pause, his whole face seeming to search for the least offensive phrasing he can muster as to not put off what could possibly make for a _very_ interesting companion. "Conscious?" he decides on finally, drawing out the word as if he isn't actually decided on it even as it leaves his mouth.

In response, the Draft promptly and decidedly swirls over to the bottom of the bed and settles onto its edge as a large and exotic bird.

"Well that was certainly unexpected," Svlad breathes with all the wide-eyed wonder of a child being told 'well actually, yes, we can and will buy all of these toys you've picked up and why don't you throw in a candy bar or two,' by their parents in a superstore.

Scooting to the side of his bed, Svlad stands, thinks better of it, and sits back down. Then, thinking better of the entire situation, decides on his original course of action and stands back up. Keeping his eyes locked, as if this thing that could arguably end up being his new best friend would disappear if he so much as blinks too long, Svlad sidles around until he's in the middle of his room.

"Would you," and this is the most important part, this may be the most important thing he ever says. It is imperative that his next words be picked with the utmost care: "like to be my new best friend and maybe, perhaps, help me solve things involving lots of other things, so many things really, things that I do not understand, and generally never end up understanding, but help me nonetheless with things that need solving?" He finishes, mouth outpacing the thought of regulation by at least forty-two words.

At this the bird flaps off of the bed and out of materiality, spinning itself over and around folds of jumpsuit and up through strands of hair, lifting and leaving them misplaced in it's seemingly joyous wake. Now Svlad might be limited in his knowledge but he knows that regular air movement does not behave in a way that one could call joyous. It does not behave at all; nor could it turn into a bird. This only left, well many really, but preferably, one conclusion.

"You're like me aren't you? Well, not like me, I've never been a bird, nor a draft for that matter, nor whatever else you probably have been or could be, could, _could_ , because it _is_ a could isn't it? Can you be anything? No wait, we were talking about something else. You! Yes! You're another 'Project'" a word which he spits with as much distain as he can whilst being truly and utterly thrilled by this new prospect the universe seems to have handed him, "aren't you?"

Mona Wilder is not a draft. Not even a Draft with a capitalized D to denote its sentience. She remembers this and hears a gasp, "you really are," followed by a declaration, "You really are!" and cannot help the small pleased smile that finds its way to her face as the boy before her ejects a store of formerly battened down excitement from of his mouth, forearms, and hands in equal measure.

"Hi, I'm Mona." Says Mona in a voice that Svlad feels is fit for someone who breaks into rooms as a draft, only to spend time in them as a bird.

Still loosing a seemingly unending supply of joy at this spectacular turn of events, Svlad takes to patting Mona on the shoulder, her left, his right, with a speed indicative of just how much emotion one can expel through a limb. He knows better than to latch onto someone he's only just met and would be horribly remiss if he were to in any way negatively impact his company, but then again, one hand doesn't suffice in expressing just how much and lots, all of this is. So, he decides to add his left hand to her right shoulder for good expressive measure.

Mona looks at the hands gently and quickly patting her shoulders, one and then the other, and then up to the face that belongs to said hands and decides to let her eyes rest fully on the set opposite hers. The patting stops but the hands remain not even inches from her with the fingers curled to the palms as if to physically stopper the excitement from continuing to pour out of them (but fully acknowledging that a stiff breeze could probably start them up again).

"It's nice to meet you Svlad." At this the hands do move, but not to Mona. They wave around with elation alongside a swaying and swooping upper body that makes Mona think maybe this boy has also been a bird before.

But nearly as quickly as he starts, he stops. Svlad seems to turn off—a wind up toy which has danced until it's unwound (a state Mona knows well). His brows draw in, as does his breath, and for a moment he seems to exist somewhere else entirely.

"You need to go." This catches Mona off-guard. Svlad looks at her like the weight of the world had, right in that moment, decided he would be its new resting place, and while leaving him standing, pressed all of the joy from him in its wake. She wonders if he's ever been a statue of Atlas before, he would certainly do a very good job. "You need to go right now, please don't ask, I, you," he begins, stammering starts and stops as if looking for an adequately concise explanation, a challenge for him on the best of occasions, but looks to the door and seemingly finds his voice somewhere on it. "Now. You need to go now."

 

And she does.

 

Svlad Cjelli is alone in his room as if he had been all along.

"Mona?" And with the lack of any and all response, he drops like a sack to the floor.

 

"One. Two. Three. Four. Five." He slows. "Six." His door opens.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't ever write, writing and I have had a contentious relationship for literally my whole life. I've never written a fic, (despite 8 billion years in fandom) but hell if this wasn't one of the most fun things I've done like maybe ever!


End file.
